Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “And what about the Arabs?"

  “The Arabs have no earthly idea of what is happening to them and they are literally scared shitless. All they know is that anyone who talks about peaceful coexistence with the Jews wakes up in the morning and those who preach violence are found dead with a body cavity full of meat jelly."

  “Amazing,” Razumovsky exclaimed. “So, why did we need to join the UNE, anyway?"

  “The UNE has its purposes, so we'll stay with it. Here is the amazing thing I've been waiting to tell you. Do you have any idea of who and what connects these two facts I've just mentioned?"

  Razumovsky shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea."

  Chebotarev cleared his throat. “I will tell you. The connection is a Russian Jew who immigrated to Israel in 1994 by the name of Isaac Aronovich Bachtman."

  “Why am I not surprised,” Razumovsky moaned. “Bachtman had been one of my most brilliant and devoted engineers back when I was running a design division at Ilyushin. Unfortunately, he was a Jew by birth and he simply got tired of the life, of this stupid anti-Semitism that plagues our country, and emigrated to Israel with his wife, Marina, and son, Misha. He was simply too good to lose."

  “Well, Igor Petrovich,” Chebotarev replied, “You may not have finished your work, but Bachtman did, while planting bananas on a kibbutz next to the Sea of Galilee in the north of Israel. After he finished it, he put it away in a safe place and forgot it, because he knew he had developed the theorems needed to create one of the most horrific weapons imaginable."

  “That makes sense,” Razumovsky admitted. “Bachtman was a pacifist, but his mind always needed something to chew on. Planting bananas on a kibbutz is not a real intellectual challenge I suppose."

  Chebotarev rubbed his hands, and sighed. “Then came August 16, 2001. Do you remember what happened on that day, Igor Petrovich?” Razumovsky shrugged. “A Palestinian suicide bomber walked into the Sbarro pizza restaurant on Jaffa Street in Jerusalem, and detonated the explosive strapped to his body. Bachtman's only son, Misha, just happened to be walking through the door of the restaurant when it happened. He died instantly, and Bachtman was beside himself with grief.

  His son worked for the Mossad, so the police did not list his son as a victim. Instead of making a stink, he went to the Mossad with his theorems and gave them to them on the understanding that they would find a way to honor his son. They did, and then they asked him to build a prototype, which he also did."

  Razumovsky rocked his head back and forth in disbelief, even though he knew the man and his capabilities. The Bachtman he'd known was a timid pacifist. However, he also admitted to himself, if something like that happened to his grandson, would he not also be tempted to do the same? However, a weapon like this would be a threat to all mankind if it fell into the wrong hands. “Why haven't we destroyed it, Mr. President?"

  Chebotarev rubbed his chin. “We and the Americans have tried several times and in many different ways. The Israelis anticipated this and built an impressive defense system into the spacecraft. It's no wonder that it weighs 12 tons! The thing is also probably built to last a hundred years, which is about how long we estimate it would take to duplicate Bachtman's work, even with your help."

  “Well then, what do we do?” The question moved the conversation to the next step; taking action.

  “For now, we let them keep their weapon and stay quiet because we have no choice but to do so. The Americans see this as we do. Nobody else must know, even the UNE. As for the Jews, after hundreds of years of being butchered by other people, they've finally bought themselves 100 years of peace, and they know it."

  Razumovsky pursed his lips as the practical details crossed his mind. “Mr. President, I think I see where you're going with this, but I also see three immediate problems. First off, Lebedev's proposal calls for twenty disrupter stations in orbit around Shiva, even with Bachtman's device, we'll need to build the most powerful computer ever to synchronize them, or risk creating hundreds of smaller objects that could completely destroy the Earth. No such computer exists that I know of."

  “Second, how do we get the Americans to agree to all this, given that they must be furious with Israel for not sharing this technology with them?"

  “And thirdly, and most importantly, how do we convince the Israelis?"

  The man had a steel-trap mind. Chebotarev knew he had correctly chosen a man who would engineer what historians would later come to call one of the major political triumphs of the 21st century.

  “Igor Petrovich, the first problem is fortunately the easiest to solve. The American company, IBM, has just finished building their first biomass computer based on human stem cells. It is not as fast as conventional processors, but it is much more powerful, because it literally works in a non-linear, parallel manner much like the human mind. This makes it a perfect central controller for Lebedev's design. I'm also told that it can program itself by simply growing more computing tissue. Obviously, we're talking about next generation computational molecular biology that is beyond anything we can do. Once the Americans have finished ironing out a few minor artificial intelligence issues, it will be able to program itself heuristically, that is, learning by its own mistakes, thousands of times faster than it could be programmed by humans."

  “I'm quite confident that we can get one of these new IBM biomass computers, so do not worry about that, providing we can get the Americans to buy in, which brings me to your second question—namely how do we get the Americans to agree to this?"

  “Understanding how we will achieve this begins with the simple difference between the Western intellect of the Americans and the Eastern intellect of us poor Russians. For the Americans, the impossible is simply that—the impossible. For us, the impossible is just another option. However, there is one instance where the impossible does become an option for the Americans and this happens when they want to save a lot of money, which is how we'll get them to agree."

  Razumovsky shook his head, “I'm not sure that I'm following this, Mr. President."

  “Stay with me,” Chebotarev answered. The Americans are building two space arks, as you know. While the rail gun launch system they're using in Florida is capable of sending great quantities of material cheaply into space, they will have to build another two such launch systems to deliver the hundreds of millions of tons of soil, sand, aggregates for drainage and of course water into space. Even then, they'll barely have enough to complete the first habitat sections of their ships by 2019. After that, they may have to begin to mine asteroids, which is no simple proposition, either."

  “What we will propose is that the Americans build a third colony ship for Israel in exchange for a prototype of Lebedev's design, using Israeli technology. After we've completed our own tests, the prototype would be repurposed for asteroid mining. Literally speaking, a device like this could pulverize a good-sized asteroid into smelter-ready ore in just a matter of minutes. Compare that with that fact that it would take an army of hard-rock miners in space suits to achieve the same results over period of several years and you've got a convincing argument."

  “Brilliant,” Razumovsky added. “The Americans will love that. Plus, the Americans will save themselves a tremendous amount of money and treasure, to say the least, while ending Israel's monopolistic control over this technology."

  Chebotarev stood up and stretched. “Let's go find your grandson while I answer your third, and most difficult, question.” Razumovsky rose and the two began to ramble in the direction of the guide's voice.

  “As it stands now, the Israelis have the technology they need to live in peace for essentially as long as they want, unless the world suddenly enters a profound renaissance, which I highly doubt. Therefore, if we are to convince the Israelis that this is a good thing for them, promises of world gratitude will not move them to action. No, we must give them tangible rewards they can take to their people. Obviously, getting their own colony ship is a very tangible reward, but they undoubtedly
are also working on something similar, only on a much smaller scale."

  “Well then, what do we have to offer them?"

  Chebotarev put an arm around Razumovsky's shoulder. “The Americans have a saying. If you can't beat them, join them. Well, we'll do it a little differently. We'll ask the Israelis to join with us and, in turn, give them something more valuable than their weapon—a real future. Not only will they get their own space ark, but we will also get the Americans to agree with us that we will never permit Islam to build a mosque in space as part of our deal to use their technology. Plus, they get to keep their Shofar 7 satellite, along with our tacit blessings to terminate as many Arab terrorists as they please with extreme prejudice. We'll probably ask them to do a few for us, as well, in Chechnya."

  Razumovsky scratched his head as everything sunk in and finally said, “Mr. President, your plan is brilliant. Convincing the Americans to participate and to give us a biomass computer will not be so difficult, but then there is Israel, and, if you do not mind my asking, something more personal to me: Why do I need to move to Moscow?"

  “Mother Russia desperately needs someone like you to mobilize the nation's resources and manpower for this effort. I want you to replace Zacharenko as my Minister of Science, who, strictly between us, is a doddering, old fool. You must also do this because you share a history with Bachtman. He likes you and respects you, and, as my Minister of Science, your promises will carry the full weight of our government. Bring him in on this, and he will do more to convince Israel to accept this deal than we could. His word carries great weight with his government. They'll listen."

  “Mr. President, if there is a shred of warmth left in Isaac's heart, I can reach it and make him to believe. However, you are also going to have to take some pretty heavy political risks. If the UNE learns of this, it could backfire on all of us."

  “Before we find your grandson, I'll tell you a little secret. We joined the UNE simply as a marriage of convenience. The UNE is not what is appears to be. While its charters states noble and worthy aims, those who control it view Russia as nothing more than an expendable pawn. However, this is one pawn that knows how to play the game like a master. To hell with the UNE! They're not our friends. Trust me on this, and trust me when I tell you that similar sentiments exist in the American leadership as well. We tell the UNE nothing, and we admit nothing if they come to us with suspicions, as they, no doubt, will eventually do."

  Razumovsky nodded his head and said with dutiful resignation: “Mr. President, it appears that I'm moving to Moscow."

  * * *

  The Friends

  THE PROBLEM WITH doing business with criminals is that their first loyalty is to their own income streams. What UNE Governor Merl Johnston failed to grasp was that the very people he tipped off about Vigo Jones, were already buying attractively priced black market goods from him on a regular basis. They were not about to kill a goose that was laying golden eggs. Especially the kind that could see you coming a mile off before and then slip in behind you to cut your throat from ear-to-ear.

  The message they left for Jones on the secure cell number he used for discrete transactions proved to be a bonanza. The tip had come from Houston, Texas, and this gave Vigo something to work from. Also, it meant that, whoever they were, they had one or more operatives buried somewhere in Port Ord. Even perhaps in Los Gatos.

  Upon his return, he would reward his sources for their good sense and information as well as changing his route, just in case they were not the only ones notified of his travel plan and cargo. Besides, he had just been given another important task to handle, one that would have necessitated a change in his itinerary, anyway.

  * * * *

  CROSSING OPEN GROUND was something for which Vigo's old two-and-half ton Army truck was ideally suited. He didn't care much for the newer electric trucks. He'd been stranded too many times by volcanic ash that managed to work its way past the so-called “impenetrable seals” into the electric motor windings. On the other hand, the design of the two-and-half ton diesel powered truck had proven itself time-and-again by reliably carrying American soldiers across the rough and muddy roads of Vietnam.

  As he drove towards a shaded area just out of sight of the freeway, he pulled up next to a small stream. He reached into his tunic and drew out the platinum colored medallion he always wore. He held it up to his right temple and closed his eyes. Yes, he was just where he needed to be.

  Now that he had found the right location, he needed to set up a camp, but it was still light and the intercept wouldn't happen till after nightfall. Tired from the long drive, he decided to rest a few minutes before unloading the things he needed from the back of the truck. He tucked his medallion back under his shirt and let his head fall slowly back against the cab wall. Closing his eyes, he remembered back to when he first found his old truck, parked at the far end of an Oklahoma National Guard armory.

  Men and vehicles can be an odd thing sometimes, and for Vigo, it was love at first sight. He strong-armed the motor pool sergeant to turn the truck over to him and then towed it to a local Kenworth dealership. A former associate of his, a retired Army officer, owned the dealership. Vigo had once saved his life, and this would be the chance to make good on his promise to pay back the favor.

  The dealer laughed and shook his head when he first saw the truck, but got right to work. He and Vigo, along with two mechanics, took it on full time and they began by stripping the truck down to its frame. After scrounging the parts the dealer felt they needed, they began rebuilding the Vietnam-era truck from the ground up, with a new high-performance Caterpillar diesel engine, Bendix air brakes, a beefed up suspension, new digital LCD display for the dash, a host of other minor upgrades and a new coat of OD green paint. The final touch was a brand new set of airless tires; the same used on UNE armored cars.

  The dealer and his mechanics beamed with pride when Vigo called it “a hard-on mating of the tried-and-true with the grooviest off-road trucker-toys imaginable.” After that, the two men christened the newly rebuilt truck by gunning it through and over every miserable hill and through every gully and ravine they could find. All the while, they were guzzling six-packs of cold beer, howling at the top of their lungs and talking about the good old days when they both had more gumption than sense. Rebuilding his truck had been the first decent experience for Vigo after the Nibiru flyby and recalling the memory always served as a pleasant and momentary diversion.

  Feeling better rested and in good spirits, Vigo prepared a fire pit and then returned to his truck for a cast iron 9-quart Dutch oven, its three legged cast iron stand and a canvas back pack, packed with cooking and eating utensils, plates and so forth. With the fire pit ready, he scouted about for some firewood, made a large stack of ready wood and kindling near the pit and returned to his truck as night began to fall.

  Perching himself up upon the tailgate, he lit a cigar and practiced blowing smoke rings till the platinum colored medallion that hung from his neck began to warm. The medallion was keyed to the elevated vibrational life energy frequencies normally associated with Indigo children. Over the years, he had worked with hundreds of such young children and could never sense their special abilities, unlike the psychics he employed, who could easily see the Indigo-colored auras of the children. Yet, his medallion now helped him to go beyond the limitations of sight, and he knew there was at least one, if not two, Indigo children within 500 meters of the truck.

  “It's show time,” he mused to himself as he crushed the cigar under the toe of his boot. Opening a small cooler near the rear of the truck, he pulled out a large fresh chunk of horsemeat and threw it as far as he could onto the road behind the rear of his truck. It would only be a matter of time before a hungry mongrel or coyote came sniffing around, but he wouldn't be there. He'd be sitting down by the campsite sipping hot coffee from a thermos he'd brought with him.

  Vigo had finished his second cup of coffee when he heard the unmistakable report of a small caliber rifle.
He leapt to his feet and made a quick 360-degree scan of the area, then drew his Beretta 9mm automatic and melted into the night.

  Finding the shooter was easy. A feral Doberman Pincer had trailed the meat Vigo had thrown behind his truck and had been felled dead with a single shot to the head. Hiding behind a boulder, he watched with silent amusement as the hunter, a 14-year old boy, put another bullet into the dog's head and then proceeded to drag the carcass of his kill off to the side of the road.

  The rifle was obviously a .22. “This kid is good,” Vigo said to himself as his eyes darted through the night in a random pattern to scan for another person. The medallions were never wrong, and his seemed to indicate that two Indigo children were out there in the night; not just one. Most likely, the second one was much younger and hiding somewhere nearby.

  The young boy was so preoccupied with carting off his kill that the beam of light from Vigo's high intensity light gun caught him by surprise, blinding him like a deer in the headlights. “Freeze, boy, I've got the drop on you,” Vigo said in a firm, but unthreatening voice.

  Still holding onto the hind legs of the dog in one hand, the boy held his other hand over his eyes to shield them from the intense light and asked, “Are you a Homer?” Homer was a derogatory term most Americans had come to use for the Homeland Defense security teams that enforced UNE imposed curfews and quarantines.

  “No, boy, I'm no Homer,” Vigo replied. “And I can't say I like them either.” He switched off the light. “Stay right there.” He walked to the back of his truck and switched on the cargo light. “Leave the dog there and come here. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. Besides, if I was going to do anything mean, you'd be dead by now, anyway. We just need to talk."

  “I figured that,” the boy said, dropping the dog. Holding his rifle loosely in his hand, he walked up to Vigo. “I been tracking him all afternoon, then he smelled some road kill, I guess, and that's when I had a clear shot.” The boy nodded over his shoulder towards the dog. “Since I got him when he was sniffing around your truck for something to eat, I'll share the kill with you if that will make you happy."